I look at old Renaissance pictures
To see god, a white man, with a beard
And strong eyes, as I picture how I
Saw God’s face. I saw him like a man,
So weary, that his eyes were dropping out
of the eye sockets, and the mouth, was whispering
Something that we humans didn’t want to hear.
As I ponder, how that nagging fellow’s face
Has become wilted and gloomy in the 21st century.
As I pause for a moment, to feel in my conscience,
Some empathy for God, a little gifting
Of time and meaning, as I look at that weary face
Who I suppose will die one day not far away. And that day
Will be the end of a long and dragged-out show,
Of how one man stood between,
The easy and the difficult. And that faceless future
Will be our easy way out, when our
Consciences become true lemons, with no
Face-off with the difficult, while you realize
That the picture of God you kept on seeing,
Was your self-control, the discipline in you,
Not to do what was fashionably easy – to sin,
When there was a choice not to.